Redemption Road: A Novel (42 page)

He frowned, and she knew he had not. “You’ve seen the photographs?”

“I don’t need to see them, Mr. Shore. I was there. I lived it.”

“Of, course. I’m sorry. This day…”

“Did she take anything with her?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Leave a message of any kind?”

“Just the open window.”

Elizabeth studied the girl’s window, remembering her own childhood room and the one time she’d gone down the tree beside it. “She’s not a minor, Mr. Shore. The police won’t consider her missing until she’s been gone for at least twenty-four hours. If anything, they’re worried she’s jumping bail, which means any looking they do is the kind you probably don’t want.”

“I don’t care. I just want her found.”

Elizabeth held his eyes and saw that he was begging. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Friends? Places? Something she kept secret or didn’t want you to know about?”

“Honestly, Detective, the only person or thing she seems to care about is you.”

Elizabeth saw it then, so clearly.

“I love her, Detective. I may not show it, not with the houses, the career, the issues with my wife. I may not show it, but my daughter is my life.” He put a palm across his heart, the red now in his eyes. “Channing is my life.”

*   *   *

Elizabeth had seen it a thousand times before: people taking others for granted until the others were gone. He was close to tears when she left, a large man, breaking.

She felt the smallest sympathy.

Back at the street, reporters collected at the end of the drive, cameras up and the questions louder. Three of the boldest blocked the exit, and Elizabeth accelerated so there would be no confusion about her intent.

There wasn’t.

When she was through she moved faster, skirting the center of town this time, then turning down a narrow one-way street lined with white picket and wisteria. That was the back way into her neighborhood, and it shaved a few minutes off her time, the old car complaining at the first ninety-degree turn. The next street was hers—a shaded lane—and she raced its length without apology or regret. Everything felt wrong, not just Channing’s message but Elizabeth’s choices, too. She should have kept the girl closer, never left town. Explanations rose in her mind, the possibility of lost phones or resentments or miscommunications. But, nothing was that clean.

Wait.

Please.

Don’t.

Elizabeth made the driveway and left the car running. She found a broken bottle on the porch, and a glass turned on its side.

“Channing?”

The door grated on its broken hinge, and she moved through the empty house, calling the girl. She checked the backyard, then searched the house again. No note. No sign. Back outside, she took her time on the porch, finding a flowerpot out of place and a dark smear she knew was blood. She touched the stain, then tried Channing’s cell again and found it ringing in a bush beside the porch. She stared at it, disbelieving, then broke the connection.

The girl was gone.

29

By the time Elizabeth reached the station a lump of dread had settled in her stomach. Something was wrong, and it was something bad. The message and the blood, the broken bottle and the lost phone. Channing went to Elizabeth’s house, but would have stayed there. She had no doubt. The girl was in trouble. But nothing meaningful could be done without access to police resources, and that could be a problem.

The place was crawling with FBI and state police and enough media to make the collection at Channing’s house seem small by comparison. She parked across the street, a hundred feet down. The feds were unmistakable with their black cars and stenciled Windbreakers. The SBI investigators were only a shade less obvious. Taking out the new phone, she called James Randolph, who answered on the first ring. “Jesus, Liz. Where are you?”

“I’m parked out front. What’s happening?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Christ. Listen.” He paused a beat. “Can you meet me in back?”

“Yes.”

“Two minutes.”

He hung up, and Elizabeth took a right turn to avoid the camera crews and reporters. She worked a wide route, traveling extra blocks to approach the rear of the station from the other side. At secure parking, she keyed the pad and waited as the gate rolled open on heavy-gauge wheels. She saw Randolph on the steps, a cigarette pinched between thin lips. He dipped his head left, and she turned for that corner of the lot, meeting him in a shady place beneath a locust tree that rose from an empty lot on the other side of the fence. “Goddamn, Liz. Where have you been?”

“Good to see you, too.” She exited the car. He was worked up, and that was rare for him. James had been around long enough to see most everything. “Can I have one of those?”

“What? Yeah. Sure.”

He shook out a cigarette, and she watched his face as he lit a match. She wanted him settled. “Thanks.” She leaned into the match. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Things have been crazy.”

“Because of Adrian?”

“Yes and no.”

“The dead guard?”

“What? Oh. Him.” Randolph raised his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess that’s part of it, him being murdered and all.”

“What’s happening here, James?” He held the gaze; drew hard on the cigarette. “James?”

He flicked the butt; looked miserable. “Ah, shit.”

*   *   *

They went through the secure door, and Randolph talked as they followed the long hall and took the stairs up. He told her about the investigation at the church. “Nine more bodies.”

“What?”

“Yeah, that’s the final count. We dug ’em up, hauled ’em out. They’re with the medical examiner, now. Listen, I know this is hard for you, more victims in such a special place.”

She stopped him with a raised hand. Everyone considered it her father’s church, her childhood home. It hadn’t been like that for a long time, but this was too big.

Nine more bodies?

Nine?

“Are you okay?”

“I will be. Tell me what else.”

He led her to a corner near the evidence room. For the moment, it was quiet. Just the two of them, his voice. “Look, this thing’s huge, right? SBI is in from Raleigh, feds down from Washington. It’s alphabet city with a million eyes looking for the smallest mistake. They’re saying it could be the biggest serial killer in the history of the state, and that puts pressure on everybody. Right or wrong, your name’s wrapped up in that, now, and I don’t mean a little bit. I mean
deep
, Liz, like seriously
deep
.”

“Because of the church?”

“Because everyone thinks you left here with Adrian Wall. Because they don’t understand the motive or relationship, and because cops get nervous when they can’t trust other cops.”

“When I left with Adrian, he was charged with misdemeanor trespass that everyone knows is bullshit.”

“Yeah well, since then he beat Officer Preston to death.”

“People know me here, James. They trust me.”

Randolph looked away and actually blushed.

Elizabeth didn’t understand at first, but then she did. It was the basement. She’d forgotten that everyone knew the story, now; knew she’d lost control and lied about it, that she’d been subdued and stripped naked and bound like an animal in the dark.

“They think you’re damaged goods. I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth stared at the floor and felt her own sudden flush. Three doors down, the room was full of FBI and state police and pretty much every cop she’d ever known. “Do you believe that?”

“No.” He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t.”

“Then, why the face?”

“Because there’s more.”

“More of what?”

“The bad stuff,” he said. “The really bad.”

*   *   *

He wanted her to see the murder board, but it was in the conference room, and that was at the end of the bull pen. “I’m sorry,” he said, because going to the conference room meant a long walk through a crowded room, a minute at least with every cop there watching.

“I came here to see Dyer.”

“You need to see this first.” He led her the rest of the way down the hall. Outside the bull pen door, Randolph kept his eyes on her face and away from her wrists. “It’s just a thing,” he said.”

But it wasn’t. He opened the door, and the stares hit as silence spread out like a cone. She worked between the desks, and through the silent men. Eyes followed. The whispers began. Halfway through the room, Randolph took her elbow, but she shrugged it off. Let them stare. Let them judge.

When they made it to the conference room, Randolph closed the door and lifted an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

He led her to the far wall, where a half dozen whiteboards were lined end to end. She saw dates and notes and photographs, so much information it was a blur. “Don’t look at the board, yet. Look at me.” Randolph stood between her and the board. “Thank you. Now listen. Dyer might show up any minute. He’ll be angry, so expect it. You’re not supposed to be here, and I’m sure as hell not supposed to be showing you this. You need to see it, though, because it will matter to you.”

“Okay.”

“Forget the bodies
in
the church. This is about the bodies
under
it. Nine of them. All female, all exhumed and with the medical examiner, but we’ve identified two so far. The first is Allison Wilson—”

“Wait a minute. I know Allison. I grew up with her.”

“I know you did.”

“She’s one of the nine?”

“She is, but that’s not the bad news.”

Elizabeth held up a hand because she was struggling with the information. She remembered Allison, a pretty girl a year ahead of her in school. She’d made decent grades, smoked cigarettes, and played bass in a grunge band. She’d disappeared a few years after Elizabeth became a cop, but no one made anything of it. The home life was bad; there were rumors of a boyfriend out of state. People assumed she’d run off with him. Now, here she was, dead under the church. By itself, it was a lot to handle; but there was something else, some other problem …

“Liz?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, seeing the girl as she remembered her: strawberry hair, pretty eyes …

“Liz.” Randolph snapped his fingers. “Are you with me?”

Elizabeth blinked. “Yes. Allison Wilson. Do you know when she died?”

“Not yet.”

“Adrian didn’t kill her.”

“I completely agree.”

Elizabeth grew still because his certainty didn’t fit. Cops doubted Adrian to the point of hatred. Since Julia Strange, that’s what they did. She narrowed her eyes, looking for the trick. “What’s changed?”

“The second body.”

“What about it?”

Randolph waited a beat, then stepped left to reveal a photograph on the board. “I’m sorry about this. I’d tell Adrian the same thing if I could.”

“Oh, my God.” Elizabeth stepped closer to the photograph, knowing the smile, the eyes, all of it. “How could this be?”

“We don’t know yet.”

She touched the photo, remembering the woman as she’d been: beautiful and quiet and somewhat sad.

Catherine Wall.

Adrian’s wife.

*   *   *

Elizabeth didn’t wait for Francis Dyer to come looking. She found him in his office, on the phone. Beckett was there, too. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Dyer met her eyes, still on the phone. “No, she’s here now. I’ll handle it. Thanks for the heads-up.” He settled the phone on its receiver. “Apparently, you made quite an entrance.” He gestured at Beckett, who closed the door. “That was the FBI agent in command. He wants to know what a suspended detective is doing poking around in what is now the heart of a multijurisdictional operation.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Dyer said.

“When?”

“Liz, listen—”

She swung to Beckett, hands fisted on her hips. “Don’t tell me about task force protocol, Charlie. I know the protocols. I don’t care about that.” She turned back to Dyer, her voice tight. “When did you plan to tell me that Adrian Wall is in the clear?”

“He’s not.”

“His wife is a victim. She died
after
his incarceration.”

“Adrian beat a prison guard to death with his bare hands.” Dyer leaned back and touched his fingertips together. “He may as well have killed a cop.”

Elizabeth turned away, reeling from the injustice of it all. Adrian went to prison for something he didn’t do. Now, he was wanted for killing a guard he should never have known. “He’s lost thirteen years, and now his wife.”

“I can’t change the fact he killed William Preston. Officer Olivet has given a sworn statement. We’ll have DNA soon.” Dyer opened a drawer and removed her service weapon and shield, placing them on the desk. “Take them.”

“What?”

“Take them back, and tell me where to find Adrian Wall.”

Elizabeth considered the badge and understood the offer. She could be a cop again, and word would descend from on high: Liz is in the fold; Liz is one of us. But, readmission came with a price, and the price was Adrian Wall. “What if I told you Channing Shore was missing?”

“I’d tell you she’s a grown woman, free on bond. She can go anywhere she wants. Take the badge.”

“What if I told you she was in trouble?”

“Do you have some proof of this? Something concrete?” Elizabeth opened her mouth, but knew it was pointless. A smear of blood. A lost phone. “Take the shield. Tell me where to find Adrian Wall.”

His palm was on the badge and the gun, his fingers spread. He didn’t care about Channing. He wanted Adrian. That’s all he wanted.

She pointed at Beckett. “What about you?”

“I think she’s an unhappy young woman, and she’ll turn up when she’s ready. This is more important.”

“So it’s all about Adrian?”

“Officer Preston had a wife and kids. I have a wife and kids.”

Elizabeth stared from one man to the other. There was no give or doubt. “If I give him to you, I want help with Channing.”

“What kind of help?” Dyer asked.

“Resources. Manpower. I want her name on the wires. I want her found, and I want it a priority. Local, state, and federal.”